


Turnbout Is Fair Play

by who_la_hoop



Series: The 'Enemy' Series [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-04
Updated: 2012-11-04
Packaged: 2017-11-17 23:23:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/554336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/who_la_hoop/pseuds/who_la_hoop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a – cough – <i>revealing</i> game of truth or dare instigated by his fellow Slytherins, Draco Malfoy finds himself in possession of a). the interesting knowledge that a certain Gryffindor horror may not be as immune to his personal charms as hitherto suspected and b). the password to the Gryffindor Tower. But Draco makes a fundamental error when he decides to make use of these facts . . .</p>
            </blockquote>





	Turnbout Is Fair Play

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bryoneybrynn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bryoneybrynn/gifts).



> About a million years ago, I promised the delightful bryoneybrynn that I would write her a sequel to my hp_wankfest fic, How to Handle an Enemy. Better late than never, eh? Dedicated, with affection. ♥ A hundred, thousand thanks also to my fantastic betas, Gryffindorj and Dysonrules, for all their help. ‘Tis very much appreciated. (I see that in the A/N to Enemy I refused to apologise for writing 7.5k of wankfic. All I can say is: ahahahahaha.)

When I woke up – or, rather, came to – in what I presumed was the Gryffindor common room, I realised I had made a terrible mistake. 

Unfortunately, purity of blood and the finest heritage in the wizarding world do not make one immune to errors of judgement, from time to time. However, I was pleased to discover – when I attempted to move, and found myself bound, both hand and foot, a Weasley so close I could peer up his nose – that this was no small stupidity I had committed. Perverse though it may sound, I would rather commit an act of unspeakable idiocy than some petty, menial error that would make me look ridiculous. A Malfoy aims high at all times.

I am not referring, you understand, to the incident that had taken place a matter of minutes – or perhaps hours – before, when I had been coerced into committing an act of public indecency in front of my greatest rival, the Boy Who Lives to Annoy. This was not my mistake. It was the hideous plot of my so-called friends and, as such, no blame can be possibly be apportioned to me. But I had acquitted myself admirably in the trial and had emerged triumphant – with the password of the Gryffindor Tower, and the accompanying implication that Potter wasn’t as immune to my personal charms as I had hitherto believed.

The terrible mistake I had made was, upon receipt of the aforementioned password to the Gryffindor Tower, _actually going there_. And – not only that – simply speaking the password and entering, without a thought as to what kind of reception party would be waiting within. Idiot that I was, I had believed that Gryffindors retired to bed at a reasonable time, and that Potter – the utter moron – would not have invited me to his own territory without being sure that his friends were sleeping the sleep of the smugly superior. Thus, waking with a throbbing headache – limbs bound, as previously mentioned, and a sight up a Weasley nostril that would turn the stomach of a stronger man than I – was an unwelcome surprise indeed.

The only blessing was that, when I managed to shift my head and take in a wider view, Potter was conspicuous by his absence. There is only so much abject humiliation I can take in front of the aforementioned Gryffindor bane of my life. I believed that I had fulfilled my quota for the rest of my existence earlier that evening – but, alas, now apparently I had to sit about uncomfortably while a selection of the students I disliked most interrogated me regarding my presence in their territory. I believed I could resist the remnants of the Veritaserum still swimming in my system more or less – but I would have preferred not to have to put it to the test.

“Malfoy!” Weasley – the most useless member of Potter’s little gang, who seems to have no purpose other than to remind one of carrots and be an easy target for derision – hissed my name accusingly, and took – praise Merlin – a good few steps away from me.

I tested my bonds, very gingerly. I was sitting on a wooden chair with a high, slatted back. My wrists were tied behind me, the cord looped through the chair in several places. My ankles were similarly tied, legs spread and strapped to the chair legs in a manner that was both uncomfortable and faintly lewd. “Enjoying the view, Weasel?” I asked, intending to infuriate. The thing about Gryffindors, you see, is that while they are quick to anger, and easy to provoke into violence, they do so love to appear as the heroes of the hour. Either Weasley would hit me, showing himself to be the sort of pathetic coward who only attacks when his enemy is defenceless, or he wouldn’t – although he’d want to terribly. Both scenarios had a pleasing feel to them. Obviously, I did not relish the idea of being attacked – but I doubted Weasley would try very hard before his conscience kicked in, and besides, glorious revenge is something that a Malfoy excels in.

“Shut up, Malfoy,” Weasley said, his fingers clenching into fists by his side.

I considered this. “You’ll get expelled for this little trick,” I said pleasantly, enjoying the way that Weasley’s face reflected his thoughts – a combination of smug delight at my situation mixed with something that suggested he rather wanted to wet his pants. I would have made a bet that now he’d captured me, he had no idea what to do with me, the unimaginative oaf. If the situations had been reversed, I could think of at least a dozen little humiliations and tortures I could inflict, and that was just for starters.

I would have made another bet, too – that the Weasel was more worried by me than I was by him. I hoped he was dwelling on just how many house points he’d be docked if he was caught.

I pulled at the bonds a little harder, but didn’t seem to get anywhere. They didn’t give – and they didn't hurt either, which I confess _did_ introduce a minor note of concern into the proceedings. It suggested they’d been charmed not to chafe – and thus charmed not to let me go. Was it too much to ask that these Gryffindors be inept at taking prisoners? Honestly. It was hardly playing by the rules.

Then I remembered that Granger was about; well, the bitch was adequate at wandwork, I’d give her that. I presumed I had her to blame for the chair as well; a quick glance around the circular room, to catalogue potential exits, had also confirmed that Gryffindors preferred their armchairs large and squishy. I tried not to shudder at the eyewateringly bright décor. No doubt these tasteless buffoons thought it cosy, rather than vomit-inducing.

“Stop struggling, Malfoy,” Weasley said – completely misinterpreting my movements and sounding annoyed. “We’ll let you go once – and only once – you tell us what you’re up to.”

“I’d be more likely to confess if you hadn’t given me brain damage,” I said tartly. I wanted to rub my skull and see if it was split. It throbbed. “Did you hit me with a broomstick? Do you _want_ me to ask my father to drag you through the courts for assault?”

“Your father deserves to be in Azkaban,” the Weasel all but yelled, prompting Granger – who was perching on a sofa off to one side, looking her usual annoying self – to ‘shhhh’ at him.

“Which is where _you_ will soon be if you don’t release me,” I replied mildly. 

The Weasel’s face went a marvellous colour, and I wondered if his head would explode. Unfortunately, with Granger’s intervention, Weasley stopped talking, in favour of subsiding onto the sofa beside Granger – I was pleased to see him flail a little as the thing threatened to suck him down into its fluffy depths – and muttering under his breath.

“What _are_ you doing here?” Granger asked, rather coldly. 

“I came here to get fucked by Potter,” I said. I couldn’t be bothered to fight the Veritaserum for something so petty. There was no way they’d believe me, and it was worth it, to see the look on the Weasel’s face.

Unfortunately, I’d forgotten that Granger – the bushy-haired cow – had a brain. She narrowed her eyes. I realised that perhaps I should have phrased it as fuck _Potter_ rather than the other way round. 

Luckily for myself, even as I saw the wheels of Granger’s brain turning, my own powers of observation kicked in. Granger was wearing a rather skimpy dressing gown – certainly not Hogwarts regulation – and the Weasel was in a similar state of undress.

“Sneaked down to screw, did you?” I commented, wrinkling my nose. The thought was entirely nauseating. I was more than a little glad that, if I had come across that revolting scene – Granger and Weasel copulating on the common room floor – at least they’d bashed it out of my brain so that I could no longer recall it. 

The matching blushes on their faces confirmed my suspicions. _Vile_.

“That’s none of your business, Malfoy,” Granger said, very sharply.

“I’m right, though,” I said, and couldn’t resist a childish insult. “Bet he’s got a small dick. Tell you what, Granger, if let me go, I’ll show you a _real_ man's—“

The Weasel leaped up – at least, he attempted to extract himself from the depths of the sofa – and there was an amusing struggle as Granger tried to restrain him. Finally, with a few loud words, the Weasel scowled and sank back down, arms folded. I couldn’t prevent myself from being mildly impressed; she had him right under her thumb, and no mistake about it.

“Watch your mouth,” Granger said, turning back to me and frowning. “And tell the truth.”

“About what?” I asked, smirking my patented Malfoy smirk, guaranteed to infuriate. “The size of the Weasel’s penis? I’m glad to say I haven’t—”

“Oh, do be quiet, Malfoy,” Granger interrupted. “I meant about why you’re here, of course.” She stared at me expectantly, as if she actually expected me to tell the truth.

I smiled, very sweetly. “I told you. I’m here for Potter’s cock.”

The Weasel pulled a face. “Can we kill him, Hermione?” he asked, turning to her. “Please?”

Granger smiled, very slightly. “Tempting as that is, I’m afraid not.” She wrinkled her nose. “I think we should get Harry. Come on.” She walked towards a door which, presumably, led further into the Gryffindor lair. I couldn’t see the circular entrance-way I’d so blithely stepped through, so I assumed it – and freedom – lay behind me. Though a fat lot of good that knowledge was while magically bound to a chair.

“Get Harry? What, and just leave Malfoy here?” Weasley said, looking outraged. “Harry’ll need our help, besides. We can’t leave him alone with that fucker. Who knows what’ll happen?”

“Want to watch Potter stick his dick in me, do you, Weasel?” I sneered. “Would that turn you on? Would the sight turn you on more than your Mudblo—”

“That’s enough!” Granger snapped, waving her wand. I found myself – the absolute _bitch_ – with a mouthful of some kind of material, a heavy gag holding it in place. It tasted repellent and the sensation against my tongue was rough and unpleasant. I could already feel my open mouth beginning to fill with water. I was going to _drool_. In _public_. The frizzy-haired cow would die for this.

I supposed, vaguely, I had brought it upon myself for calling her a Mudblood. One does not like to question one’s upbringing, but there were times I wished certain values were not so ingrained. I had been taught the error of my ways – Merlin knew I had – but old habits died hard. A certain sour feeling settled in my gut, an unaccustomed self-loathing.

Fucking hell. _This_ was why I avoided Gryffindors. Why had I come here to expose myself to this? I really had been unspeakably dim; honestly, I was almost on Longbottom-level stupidity here.

“Just one kick,” the Weasel said to my distaste, eyeing me with longing. “Between the legs. No-one else’ll know. Go on, Hermione, let me.”

“Oh, just go and get Harry,” Granger said, a similar look of longing in her eye. I hoped she’d hold back. The Malfoy equipment is more precious than platinum. Technically, if she ended the Malfoy line with a swift kick, I could have her life terminated in forfeit, according to ancient wizarding laws. 

The Weasel went. This had its upside – in that I no longer had to look at him – but also its downside. In short, I was now alone with Granger. And now, instead of looking at me in a way that suggested imminent violence, her expression was . . . disquieting.

“Why are you here?” she asked, leaning forward a touch and staring at me in a disturbing manner. 

I did not answer: proving not only my mastery over the remnants of Veritaserum in my system, but also that even big-headed know-it-alls like Granger can make fundamental errors. I raised an eyebrow, hoping to convey, in as disdainful a manner as possible, that it was no use asking questions of someone with a gag in their mouth.

“You’re in your pyjamas under your school robe,” she said, her brow wrinkling. “And don’t think that I didn’t notice you’re not wearing any shoes.”

 _All the better to creep about suspiciously, my dear._ I hadn’t hitherto realised that Granger was one of the deeply annoying types who likes to talk to herself. I am more than aware – through long and tiresome experience – that, as a breed, Gryffindors enjoy the sound of their own voices, but I had thought Granger only piped up when she had an opportunity to demonstrate she was more library than woman.

“So that suggests you didn’t come here to attack us,” Granger continued.

Yes, silk pyjamas are an international sign of peace, I wanted to add, in a deeply sarcastic manner, but couldn’t, for reasons already mentioned. I almost looked forward to the return of the idiot-carrot, as I began to suspect I was in for a rather boring monologue. Except that the arrival of the Weasel would also signify the arrival of Potter – and that was a reunion I was now keen to put on hold. 

“Wait here,” Granger said, rather unnecessarily, and then headed out of the same door the Weasel had vanished through.

Surprisingly, as soon as she was out of sight, I wished she weren’t. Not, you understand, because I missed her bright, shining face. But, to my own shock, I discovered that there was only one thing worse than being gagged and bound in the middle of the Gryffindor common room: being gagged and bound and _alone_ in the middle of the Gryffindor common room. For the first time since I’d come to, I felt uneasy. There were still Gryffindors in the school who felt a grudge towards me; if an insomniac idiot came across me, disgustingly vulnerable and unable to defend myself, what in Merlin’s name was I going to do? The Malfoy raised eyebrow has a powerful effect on the unwary, but that only goes so far.

Since I was now alone, I devoted myself to testing my bonds a little more energetically. Unfortunately, as the sole effect was to dishevel my robes, I regretted the effort – there is no point in putting on a show of nonchalance in the face of one’s enemies, if there is physical evidence to the contrary. So I gave up the attempt, grit my teeth and tried to at least get my body temperature and breathing in control. And tried not to dribble. _Ugh_.

A further scan for potential exits yielded nothing – unless, that was, I wished to leap like a salmon out of the window and crash seven floors to the ground, still bound to the chair. I thought, on the whole, I would rather not.

When, in a matter of minutes, Granger re-entered the room – clad, I was glad to see, in more layers than previously – I was disconcerted to feel relieved. And – even more disconcertingly – to feel overwhelmed with dread when the voices of the Weasel and Scarhead filtered through the open common room door. They were evidently hot on Granger’s heels. I told myself I was simply nervous that the morons were talking so loudly they would awaken the entire house, and I would then find myself captive to not just three idiots but a whole herd.

It was not a thought that pleased. Again, I was reminded that a proportion of Gryffindor – a large proportion, my traitorous brain informed me – despised Slytherin, despised my family and, most particularly, despised me. 

I did not care overly much. Putting on a brave face is so much more attractive than self pity, in my humble opinion. But there is a significant difference between not caring and being downright suicidal.

“I can handle—” came the voice of My Hero.

“—not leaving you alone with _that_ untrustworthy ferret,” replied the Weasel, entering the room, his face a dull brick-red. It did not coordinate in harmony with the colour of his hair. Nor did his red Gryffindor pyjamas. It was entirely distressing.

It occurred to me, somewhat uncomfortably, that I was forcing myself to look upon the Weasel merely to avoid looking at Potter. What a truly vile state of affairs this was.

“Shut the door,” said Granger in a reasonable tone. “You don’t want to wake anyone else up, do you?”

“If you both just go back to bed, I can deal with this,” Potter said, leaving the door open. I snuck a look at him. To my dismay, he appeared unfazed – irritated, if anything. It wasn’t that I wanted him blushing and stammering and making the pair of fools suspicious, you understand. It was just . . . It was Potter! Why the fuck should he remain so calm and collected, when my stomach felt like a gaggle of Cornish pixies were having a fight within it?

I began to wonder, not for the first time, if House stereotypes really were a complete load of bollocks, after all.

“We’re absolutely not leaving you alone with him,” Granger said to Potter, at the same time as the Weasel snorted something incomprehensible.

Potter glanced over at me, and to my embarrassment I found myself completely unable to hold his gaze.

“He’s up to something,” Granger said – reasonably, in my opinion. “And how did he get our password? We can’t just let him go.”

“I’m not going to just let him go,” Potter said, his tones even. “I’ll sort out what he’s up to, and then get rid of him. But there’s no reason why you two can’t just go back to bed.”

I tried my best not to nod frantically; it was an effort.

The Weasel’s eyes narrowed; I could practically see the cogs whirring behind his eyes. “Got it!” he said, far too loudly for comfort. “The slimy git’s put some sort of spell on you. Why else would you want to be alone with him?”

A blush began to creep up the side of Potter’s throat and over his cheeks. I watched it, my horror at his telling lack of self control mixed with a tinge of amusement.

“Don’t be silly, Ron,” Granger said, to my relief. But then she added, “We’ll just remove the gag and ask him.”

“But he might repeat those . . . those . . . _what he said before_ about Harry,” Ron spluttered.

Hermione rolled her eyes and waved her wand.

I spat out the gag and felt remarkably undignified. “What, about wanting Potter’s cock?” I said, taking the offensive.

It was almost worth it, to see look of surprise on Potter’s face.

“You shut the hell up!” Ron snapped. “As if Harry would ever go for someone as . . . as . . .”

“Untrustworthy? Amoral? Cowardly? Weak?” Hermione supplied.

“. . . as you!” Ron finished.

There was a moment of silence.

“Cat got your tongue, Malfoy?” Ron sneered.

I’ll confess I wasn’t feeling quite my usual perky self. It is not often I find myself at a loss for words, but hearing myself so unflatteringly described in such a passionless, analytical way by Granger somehow had more sting than anything the Weasel could ever come up with.

And, to make it worse – dear _Merlin_ , why did it make it worse? – Potter said nothing.

And continued to say nothing.

“Well, as lovely as this conversation is . . .” I hinted, trying to sound snide and wincing when it merely came out – at least, to my finely-attuned ears – small and hurt.

“How did you get our password?” Ron demanded.

“None of your business,” I said, pleased to find I was able to get the words out. The Veritaserum lingered at the edge of my mind, and while I suspected it wouldn’t allow me to say any literal untruths, evasions appeared to be allowed.

Potter blinked and frowned, and I wondered why.

Then it hit me: he thought I was _protecting_ him.

It was a ludicrous notion, but I was completely unable to think of a compelling reason why I hadn’t merely told the truth and watched him sweat as he found himself unable to explain himself to his best friends.

“I gave it to him,” Potter said.

Now it was my turn to blink and gape at him like a moron.

“You . . . what?” the Weasel said thickly.

“I needed to speak to him privately,” Potter said. He didn’t blush. He didn’t stammer. He sounded entirely in control of himself. He looked it, too – until I noticed his hands, fingers so tightly woven into his robe that his knuckles had turned yellow. “I didn’t expect he’d come by _right now_ though,” he added, an edge to his voice.

No shit, I thought.

I snuck a glance at Granger. She didn’t look convinced, her jaw very set. Finally, she sniffed. “I wish you’d _said_ , Harry.” She turned to me, a very . . . knowing look in her eye. I didn’t like it much. “Come on, Ron,” she said, still staring at me, as if she could tell exactly what I was thinking.

I found myself practising my – admittedly poor – Occlumency, just in case.

“But, Hermione . . .” Ron said. He waved his arms in an aimless way, until Hermione rose, gave me another hard look, and tucked one of the Weasel’s flailing arms under her own, in order to drag him – still protesting – towards the open door and push him through. Then she turned, sniffed again as she closed it after him, and headed to her own dormitory.

The click of that door closing behind _her_ was very loud in the quiet room. The fireplace was unlit, so there wasn’t even a merrily crackling fire to break the tension, damn it. It seemed unlikely to me that the Gryffindors had passed up the chance to add a little more red colouring to the room, but there it was.

I very studiously did not look at Potter.

“Are you some sort of idiot, Malfoy?” Potter suddenly said, and then followed this up by muttering several privacy and warding spells – the doors made several satisfying clicks that put my mind at least somewhat more at ease – while I spluttered and thought Bad Things about him.

I may have said a few Bad Things too.

Potter turned back to me when he was done. “I mean, seriously?”

This did _not_ seem fair. “You gave me the password!”

“I didn’t think you’d actually USE it!” 

This gave me pause for thought. And Potter evidently didn’t like that I was thinking. I opened my mouth.

“Shut _up_ , Malfoy.”

I smiled as sweetly as I could. “Eloquent as ever, Potter.” And, while he spluttered and frowned at me, “May I ask why you did give me the password, if you didn’t intend me to use it?” I expanded on my theme. “Surely even you aren’t so vindictive that you thought a suitable revenge would be for me to catch Weasley and Granger in the throes of passion and have my head stove in for my trouble?”

“I . . . what?” His mouth opened, and then he shut it firmly. He raised his eyebrows as if asking a question – though what that might be, I had no idea.

“Weasley. Granger. Fucking,” I repeated, as if to an idiot. I shifted in my chair; I wasn’t uncomfortable, precisely, but it was wearing on the spirit to remain in place for such a long time. And I’ll admit I would have felt a little more comfortable having this conversation if I were able to actually extract myself from it at some point, rather than the tedious, faintly terrifying notion of being trapped here until Potter actually made sense – which I rather suspected would be the end of time.

“Yes, yes,” Potter said, waving away the mental image of his two friends fucking with a faintly nauseous expression. “But . . . your head? Are you okay?” He frowned, and his glasses slipped down his nose a fraction.

This struck me as ludicrous. “It has been a long and ridiculous evening, Potter. Please, for the love of all things holy, let me go. Or are you waiting for me to beg?” I added spitefully. Maybe, I thought, a little traditional sparring would infuriate him enough to put an end to this.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Malfoy,” Potter said. His voice sounded like a yawn. He ran one hand through his hair, and tufts sprang up at all angles. He really was a disgrace. “I only meant, do you need a healing potion? I could take you to Madam Pomfrey.” As he spoke, he came closer, and before I could protest he was leaning over me, pushing his fingers through my hair, and—

“Ouch!” I said as he probed a painful spot. “Fuck’s sake, Potter.”

“Sorry,” Potter said, not sounding sorry at all, and prodding around a bit more. “Doesn’t look too bad. I think you’ll live.”

“Of _course_ I’ll live, you—” I found myself unable to complete the sentence when Potter drew back a touch, his hands still lightly tangled in my hair, and looked me full in the eye.

I wet my lips and decided that if he cupped my face in his hands I’d bite him. “What?” I most decidedly did not like the way he was looking at me. Sort of hungry, and lost and . . . and I couldn’t quite tell. I presumed the worst. It seemed unlikely that he would be entirely happy with the notion of desiring someone like me – and it did seem clear, at this juncture, that desire me he did, however reluctantly.

Potter dropped his hands, his gaze slithering away from me. As my stomach fell, I wondered if his hands on my cheeks would have been so bad after all. Probably. Possibly. I did a little more surreptitious testing of my bonds; they held.

I began to wonder if rocking myself, _avec_ chair, towards the window and out of it would be an option after all.

“I shouldn’t—” Potter started, then shook his head, biting his lip. His shoulders were high and tense.

“Shouldn’t what?” I asked sharply. I knew, of course; I am not an idiot, despite these circumstances perhaps proving I am not always as in control of my faculties as would be to be wished. It seemed a particularly low blow that desire had brought me to such a sorry pass; there were no circumstances under which I wished to discuss anything relating to the Dark Lord or the war with Potter, and yet it seemed that we were teetering on the brink of just such a repugnant, unwelcome conversation.

I should have known it was all too good to be true; that Potter – noble, heroic Potter – wouldn’t be able to hold down his distaste for what I am, what I’ve done, long enough even for a quick, never to be repeated fumble with the Big Bad Malfoy.

Potter sighed, and his shoulders dropped. He shrugged slightly. “I . . . Its tricky,” he mumbled. He pushed his glasses up his nose, his hand snaking round to scratch at the back of his neck. “I didn’t expect . . . It’s not . . .”

He mouthed something that could have been _not right_ , but what the fuck that meant I had no idea.

“What the hell are you babbling about?” I snapped. Despite Potter’s incoherence, I had no trouble in reading between the lines. Not right? Well, I was hardly jumping for joy that I felt the way I did about him. Merlin knew I’d tried my best to stop myself. “Just because I want you in my bed, does _not_ mean I like you,” I said, cutting off whatever further drivel was about to come out of his mouth. I attempted also to look as if I meant it.

Potter failed to look hurt; instead, he stared back blankly. Then he frowned, as if he were working something out.

I found this indifference entirely infuriating. I caught Potter’s eye and gave him a death glare. Except, it didn’t quite work right, and we seemed to be locked in some kind of perverse staring contest. My eyes started to sting.

I couldn’t keep it up; I had to swallow the ball of tight, hot, rage in my throat, and I couldn’t do that without blinking too. The room swam a little, and through a haze I could see Potter’s expression shifting into something so horrendous I couldn’t bear it: pity.

This would _not_ do. I was not going to have Potter pitying me, thinking that my tears of anger were anything more pathetic. 

“In fact,” I managed, between quick, shallow breaths – I couldn’t seem to get enough air, no doubt because I was so furious, “I’d go so far as to say that I hate you.” I clamped my lips together – for no reason, really – and set my jaw. I focused hard on one of the godawful tapestries on the wall because . . . well, because I might as well look there as anywhere.

“Right,” Potter said. “Right.” Then, after a moment, he said: “So why are you crying?”

“I am NOT! My eyes are _watering_ , Potter. WATERING,” I snapped, giving the tapestry a death glare. The heat was back behind my eyes, and there was an uncomfortable tightness in my throat; more anger, no doubt.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw him step back, but instead of setting me free and then pissing off – my dearest wish at this present moment – he grabbed one of the squishy armchairs, dragged it opposite me, and flopped down into it.

I decided to glare at the carpet under his feet instead. Joy, I thought. A tête-à-tête. What could be better? Apart from ANYTHING EVER—

“I know you’re just gearing up to say something spiteful, Malfoy, but just don’t, okay?” Potter said, tucking his legs under himself.

“Well, what the hell _do_ I . . .?” I faltered as my eyes snapped up to meet his. I lost an iota of my poise as we looked at one another. His eyes really were remarkably green. They were also excruciatingly kind.

Fuck’s sake.

“Why don’t you tell the truth for a change?” Potter said, surprising me by constructing a full sentence that made sense and everything.

I focused on the school jumper he’d evidently thrown on over his pyjamas. It was less disconcerting than his expression. “I don’t care to,” I said. Well, wasn’t _that_ the truth.

“Did you really take Veritaserum?” he suddenly asked, again to my surprise.

“Yes. I’m an idiot, remember?” I blinked hard and tried to regulate my breath as my brain whirred. The hot, scratchy feeling behind my eyes was subsiding, thank goodness. Perhaps I’d merely suffered an allergic reaction; the décor was certainly enough to give anyone a fit of the vapours. “Why the hell would I have said – done – that stuff otherwise?” The front of his jumper really was fascinating. All that wool and all those stitches. Marvellous.

“I have absolutely no idea why you did . . . what you did,” Potter said. “Nothing you’ve ever done has made sense to me.”

Oh. The seemingly unflappable Potter now seemed slightly flapped. This curious line of inquiry had given me back a touch of my poise – enough to be able to tear my gaze away from his jumper and look at him without flinching. Still, I longed to be able to wipe my face. The way that Potter kept glancing at my cheeks was giving me the creeps. It was almost as if he gave a fuck – and thinking that was bad for my mental health.

It seemed that now it was Potter who was unable to look directly at _me_. “. . . a trap,” he mumbled.

“Pardon?” What was the idiot babbling about now?

“I’m not saying it again, Malfoy,” Potter said firmly, squaring his chin and looking bravely at my ear.

“Then we are at an impasse,” I said tartly, even more myself again, “for I haven’t got a fucking clue what you’re talking about. A trap? _What_ trap? And why, for the love of all that’s holy, would I set one for the hero of the wizarding world? I am not willing to risk what little is left of my reputation for something so pathetic.”

Potter’s eyebrows drew together and he bit his lip. “Then you really do . . .” He trailed off, but seemed to be thinking of what to say next.

I could sense the words ‘like me’ on the horizon, and there were some dark paths I didn’t particularly wish to tread, particularly while – for the love of Salazar – trussed up, and with Potter erroneously believing I had been blubbing. I recalled the last time Potter had seen me in a state; that had hardly ended well.

The memory, although unpleasant in the extreme, served me well. I was able, at last, to pull myself together. Last time, Potter had nearly killed me. It reminded me that while I had things to be ashamed of, so did he; Perfect Potter was not _quite_ so perfect after all.

“For goodness’ sake,” I told him firmly, before he said the inevitable, “will you either get on with the foul tortures or let me go, if you’re too chicken?”

To my relief, this completely derailed Potter’s train of thought. “Foul tortures?” he said, his entire forehead a frown.

I resisted the temptation to roll my eyes. “I am tied to a chair, Potter. Helpless,” I said. A muscle in his jaw twitched. “Unable to defend myself.” He swallowed, very visibly, to my satisfaction. “Here, in fact, to be ravished,” I continued, putting cutting emphasis on the final word. “Kindly tell me you hadn’t _forgotten_?”

“Oh!” Potter coloured up and looked away. “Um . . . Do you?” he inquired of the floor.

This time I really did roll my eyes. “Do I _what_?”

“You know . . .” he said. I’d heard he was planning on applying to be an Auror after school; if he was this good at interrogating suspects, I feared for the future of the wizarding world.

I braced myself, hopeful of potential ravagings. It would mean, at the very least, I could give my brain a rest from the torture of trying to decode Potter’s torturous mumbles. But he just folded his arms, squared his shoulders, and schooled his face into an expression that suggested something Noble and Gryffindor-appropriate would come out of his mouth.

“Malfoy, you look like shit, you’re probably concussed, and I made you cry—”

“You did _not_!”

“—so, hard though it may be to believe, I’m not particularly in the mood right now. It really _wouldn’t_ be right.”

I . . . what? 

We stared at each other for a bit. Was I going mad? Did Potter object to a potential liaison between us not because of who I was, what I’d done, but . . . but because I – sweet Salazar – _had a headache_ and . . . and . . .

Surely, Potter wasn’t moronic enough to think it wasn’t right for him to touch me because I hadn’t agreed to be tied up? Oh _God_. He was a Gryffindor, he really _was_. It was so noble I wanted to vomit.

I decided to pray that I would be entrusted Potter, all tied up, one day soon; he’d soon learn the fundamental differences between Gryffindor and Slytherin – and he’d like it.

“Plus, you hate me, remember?” Potter added, completely derailing my train of thought.

“Well, I _am_ untrustworthy, amoral, weak and cowardly, so I hardly see how it matters,” I snapped. And then wished I hadn’t. Potter had that kind look in his eyes again.

I was beginning to feel extremely discombobulated; every time I thought I had a handle on the situation, it slipped away from me. 

“If you ever acted like you were sorry, Hermione would forgive you, you know.”

I bit down the insult about Granger that threatened to spill out. I didn’t want to be – wouldn’t be, _refused_ to be – that person any more. But that didn’t prevent me from feeling entirely humiliated that I’d just shown Potter – a man slower on the uptake than . . . than something very slow on the uptake – that I had taken Granger’s criticisms entirely to heart.

If Potter noticed that I didn’t respond with profusions of joy, he hid it well. “I forgave you a long time ago,” he added, almost offhand.

I failed to respond to this too. This really was getting to be beyond the pale. Midnight confessions of weakness have never been, and never will be, my style – when they relate to my own weaknesses, that is. And Potter was, always had been – and, ugh, probably always would be – one of mine.

How utterly, utterly vile. I closed my eyes and hoped that when I next opened them Potter would have emulated his mighty hero, Goderic Gryffindor, and let me go, so I could leave with a smidgen of my dignity intact. I evidently wasn’t going to score anything more pleasurable than a lecture this evening, and I wanted it over with.

Potter cleared his throat. I tensed, waiting for something dreadful to come out of his mouth.

“Draco, are . . . er . . . are you in, you know . . . _love_ with me?”

I nearly choked. And there _was_ Veritaserum in my system still, and I _was_ tired and overwhelmed and angry and half concussed and, really what was the fucking point of demurring? So: “Yes.” And now it was out, there was no taking it back. Despite the fact that it wasn’t even close to how I felt – obsession and desire and sheer _need_ , so strong I sometimes wondered if there was room in me left for anything else. “Although I hate you just as much,” I added as the silence stretched. Also true. As if that made things better. “And how _dare_ you ask me such a thing?” I said, in an attempt to regain at least some minor control of this complete clusterfuck of a situation.

“Er, right,” Potter said. “Sorry.” He cleared his throat again. “But . . . it’s okay, you know.”

I couldn’t stop myself from looking at him incredulously. I don’t know what I expected to see; but it certainly wasn’t Potter struggling out of the armchair, stumbling over and kneeling in front of me.

“What . . .?” The fuck? 

“Hold still,” Potter said, leaning in and reaching behind me. We were practically cheek to cheek; every time he took a breath, I felt it against my hair. His hands fiddled with the bonds around my wrists, he muttered something and I felt a tingle of magic against my skin. Immediately the pressure around my ankles lessened. I would have said the same for my wrists, except . . . Potter was reaching up with one hand around his neck, and . . .

“There’s something not quite right about you,” I said, trying not to tremble but instead sound stern. Apparently we weren’t going to talk about my sordid little confession. Apparently he’d made the decision we were going to skip right over to the next part.

Well that was abso-bloody-lutely fine by me. Maybe, if I tried hard enough, I could fuck the memory of that particular part of the evening right out of his brain. Or perhaps at some point Potter would be relaxed enough that I could swiftly Obliviate him. Yes. An acceptable solution.

Potter tightened the knot around my wrists and leaned back a touch. He didn’t seem sure whether to smile or not. Then he took a visible deep breath, and his expression changed. There was a new alertness about him – about the set of his shoulders – that made me shiver. His eyes narrowed behind his ugly glasses, and his piercing gaze made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

I flexed my wrists experimentally. Potter’s school tie was almost tight enough to cut off the blood circulation, but it wasn’t beyond the realm of possibilities that I could get myself loose if I wanted to. It was a touch ignominious, I’ll confess, being bound by a Gryffindor tie, of all things, but I rather thought I could overlook it, when considering the wider context.

Particularly as – oh Merlin, how revolting – Potter was now gently kissing down my cheek, in a tender manner that suggested he was following the trail of one of the drops of water that I had been unable to prevent from sliding down my face.

It was – oh Merlin, oh _Merlin_ . . . I wanted to protest, again, that they’d been tears of anger – ANGER! – but I couldn’t get the words out or stop myself from trembling as he nuzzled at my neck, his hands parting my robe, yanking at the hem of my pyjama top and sliding under to rest lightly against my sides.

“Mmmm,” Potter said, his grip tightening a fraction, almost possessive. I shuddered. If he should suspect how I felt . . .

I wanted him to _own_ me. Oh God.

“Potter,” I said weakly, “don’t you think—”

I felt him smile against my neck. “Occasionally, yes,” he interrupted, his breath a hot tickle against my skin. “But you were saying?” His hands slid fractionally lower, fingers nudging at my waistband.

I decided I didn’t particularly care to chat right now, after all. This, however, seemed to inspire Potter to further speech. It was a pity it didn’t also inspire him towards clarity.

“It’s your turn, by the way,” he said, one hand reaching up inside my top to stroke along the line of a rib.

I squirmed, trying not to arch towards him. “What on earth do you mean by that, Potter?”

“You know exactly what I mean,” he said quietly. Ominously, more like, I thought. I wet my lips. “I had to order you about. Now . . . your turn. Just so we’re clear.”

“Hate to break it to you,” I said, trying for sarcasm, “but there’s a limit to what I can do while sitting on a chair, my hands tied behind my back.”

Potter’s hands skimmed over my hips, and I had heart palpitations when his thumbs grazed down my inner thighs. “Oh? So there’s nothing you want me to . . .?” He trailed off and, pulling away from my neck, his eyes dropped – the little fucker – to my crotch.

Then he licked his lips.

I momentarily lost the power of speech. When I regained it, I had evidently lost the use of my brain too. For, instead of saying a simple, “Yes, please,” I found myself babbling, “Not in the middle of the Gryffindor common room with Weasley and Granger lurking outside, ready to brain me again!”

Potter grinned. It didn’t, somehow, seem an appropriate reaction.

“Explain yourself,” I said testily. I wondered if I had a hitherto undiscovered talent for undoing knots with my teeth. I required it, so I could punch the fucking prick-tease. 

“I was just thinking,” Potter said, his lips quivering, “that as half of Slytherin house saw you with your cock out, it seems a little silly to be stressing over whether Ron or Hermione are on the other side of a pair of firmly warded doors. By the way, stop wriggling. If you want me to untie you, just say so.”

I had a little Moment. When I had recovered, I managed to say, “Three of my closest friends are _not_ the same as the whole of Slytherin! And they are not, in any shape or form, comparable to Granger or the Weasel.”

“Ron and Hermione, you mean,” Potter said. He had a disturbing glint in his eye.

“Whatever, Potter.”

“Harry, you mean.”

It was far too soon to have another little Moment, but I had one all the same. “Harry?” I said, attempting to sound cutting.

“If we’re going to . . . you know . . . the least you can do is call me Harry.”

“My back aches,” I said tartly. “My head aches. My arms ache.” I sniffed, in attempt to suggest – nonchalantly – that I said these sorts of things out loud all time: “But most of all, my sodding _cock_ aches. So maybe you could get on with dragging me to your bed now, if it’s not too much trouble? You can even tie me to the fucking headboard if you must, since you seem to get off on this kinky shit.” I paused and added: “Harry.”

I wouldn’t have said that Potter – Harry, my mind amended for some reason – went red, exactly; instead, he turned a species of purple, and I was perversely glad that he seemed more embarrassed hearing my little speech than I’d felt making it. I wouldn’t have sworn to the colour of my own face, but I doubted I was quite the usual lily white shade I pride myself upon. 

However, the idiot surprised me once again. Despite the hue of his face, he gave the good impression of a man more or less in control of himself. “My bed” Harry said thoughtfully, “is next to Ron’s. And yes, he probably _is_ lurking around outside wondering why the hell I haven’t come back yet.”

I tried not to grind my teeth. “Us _Slytherin_ eighth years have our own rooms,” I said. “I’m surprised you Gryffindors didn’t think to ask for that yourself. Or do you enjoy the scent of the Weasel’s socks?”

Harry laughed – laughed! – and came towards me. “We’ll go there then. Upsy-daisy,” he said as he shoved one arm under my legs and one under my armpits, hoicking me up into his arms in a spectacularly ungainly fashion and nearly breaking my arms off as my body parted from the chair.

"You are _not_ carrying me anywhere like this," I protested, my face tucked into his chest. He smelled of clean laundry, with a hint of something darker, dirtier. I shivered, despite myself.

"Okay," he said peaceably, and put me down, facing the round exit. He hooked one finger into the tie binding my wrists. "Lead on."

I dithered for a moment. I longed for the darkness and comfort of my own room. But never, even in my wildest, filthiest daydreams, had I imagined being led there – past my sniggering housemates – like some species of farmyard animal.

Fuck it. "I am _not_ walking into the dungeons with a hard-on so big it'd take your eye out," I managed.

I could hear Harry clear his throat behind me and move a step nearer; his breath was hot against my ear, his body trembling so close to mine that our clothing touched. "No?" he said.

"So . . ." I could hardly believe I was going to say something so ridiculous _out loud_ "you'll have to take care of it for me now instead." I squeezed my eyes tight shut and tried not to sink into the floor.

"H-h-how?" Harry said against my neck, and I wanted to scream. Then he added – oh _God_ – "Hands or . . . m-mouth?"

There was a good chance I'd have to use a quick _Incendio_ on this particular pair of pyjama bottoms later; there was no way in hell I'd be entrusting them to the house elves.

My heart thudded, and my cock pulsed in time with each beat; it was as if all my nerve endings had spontaneously relocated themselves to my groin. The light touch of my silk pjs against me was simultaneously erotic and unbearable. I could even _smell_ my own arousal, sharp and salty.

Harry nuzzled up against my neck. "Well?" he murmured, and took a long lick of my throat that made my legs threaten to buckle.

“Mmmm,” I breathed, tipping my head to expose my neck even further.

Harry nipped at a spot just below my ear; it stung, a pleasure/pain that had me gasping. Then he jabbed me – hard – in the ribs. “Well?” he demanded, his right hand then snaking round to my hip, fingers digging in.

“I . . . _oh_ ,” I managed, as he tongued further bruises to my throat. I was going to look _appalling_. I was almost – not quite – past the point of caring.

Harry blew lightly over the spot he’d been tonguing, and I shivered.

“ _Draco_ ,” he said, very low. “Tell me.”

It appeared I was coyer than I’d thought. Oh _god_. I summoned my manly courage; I knew I had it somewhere. “Pretty please, Mr Potter, will you be so good as to apply your mouth to my nether regions,” I said snidely. At least, I tried to sound snide – to my own ears I sounded strangled and ludicrous. And loud. It was a big, quiet room, after all. “For fuck’s sake, Harry, _blow me_ ,” I added, in case I hadn’t been clear enough.

I felt Harry smile against my overheated skin. “Your wish is my command,” he murmured, and I heard rather than felt him sink to his knees, before he tugged me round, none too gently, and . . . _fuck_. He pushed my robes aside, then pressed his face right between my legs, gently nuzzling my cock through the silk fabric of my pyjama trousers. The fabric felt slick and slippery, and Harry’s breath was so hot . . . It was the most exquisite torture.

Harry’s hands reached up to anchor themselves on each hip, and he placed a series of hot, wet kisses along my shaft, where it strained against the fabric. My cock, pulsing, added a little wetness of its own, my legs shaking as his tongue flicked against the head, silk and saliva sliding against me . . . oh, unbearable. Remarkable.

I looked down, only to be caught in the intensity of Harry’s gaze. I felt my lips part at the sight of him staring right at me. He puckered his lips and, his eyes locked on mine, _blew_ over the damp fabric.

“ _Ohhhh_.”

The sensation was . . . I had to clench my muscles not to fall over, which only made it worse. The feverish breath over the cooling, damp fabric taut against my skin . . .

He was a _bastard_. I swallowed hard. “I said _blow me_ ,” I managed.

Harry’s face was flushed, but he had a positively evil twinkle in his eye.

I drew on deep reserves of Malfoy pride; I would _not_ let him get the better of me. It was _him_ between my legs, not the other way around, so I refused to be embarrassed. “As in, take my clothes off and suck my dick, you— _what are you doing?_ ”

“Taking your clothes off—” Harry said as he slid the robe backwards over my shoulders – he’d sprung up and away from my needy cock like a coiled spring – and went for the buttons of my pyjama top. The robe caught at my wrists and hung down behind me; it was joined swiftly by my top when Harry, evidently too much of a Neanderthal to have mastered buttons, divested me of it by the method of snapping them off.

“—and sucking your dick,” Harry continued thoughtfully, running a thumb over my left nipple and forcing my legs further apart via the decidedly _unthoughtful_ method of pushing at my left inner ankle with his foot, until it was either take a wider step or fall on my arse. The position had the negative merit of tightening the fabric at my crotch; I did my very best not to hump the air. “Via the scenic route,” he added, taking half a step back to examine me, head to toe, with his eyes.

Heat flooded me.

“Mmm, you’re blushing,” Harry said, a touch too delightedly, running a finger over my chest, where I knew I must be blotchy. It is not always an advantage being quite so pale.

I raised my chin. “Scenic route, Potter? Since when did I give you permission for that?”

Harry’s own colour rose, but he smiled and sank down again, catching my pj bottoms and dragging them down, gently shoving at me until I’d managed to hop my way out of them, and then pushing my legs apart once more to – oh – kneel between them.

I had the sudden presentiment that I was going to last about nought point one seconds.

“Uh,” I said, in a panic as Harry parted his lips. “I mean . . .” The sight of Harry staring at my cock in that way really had turned me into a gibbering moron. “Kiss it, first.” Just saying that nearly had me coming.

Harry’s lips quirked, but I could hear his breathing quicken too. He leaned forward and pressed the whisper of a kiss against the base of my cock.

And stopped.

Oh God.

“M-more,” I managed. “Softly. All the way up.”

He did so; I curled my toes and wished he— “Hands. On my arse,” I grated out.

His hands slipped up and over my hips, sliding to rest against my arse cheeks. And – oh – pulling gently to part them. My stomach knotted. He didn’t go further though; just continued pressing kisses gently, maddeningly, against my cock, his hands a soft pressure against my backside.

If I wanted . . . I’d have to ask for it.

I didn’t know if I did. I couldn’t think. Could hardly breathe. I needed . . .

“L-lick it,” I stammered.

Harry’s soft, damp tongue flicked against my shaft, and I shuddered.

“L-l-longer. Harder.”

He took one long, wet lick from the bottom of my cock right to the tip. My eyes all but rolled back in my head.

“ _Again_.”

Harry let out a shaky breath, his hands tightening against my arse, and did so, swirling his tongue over the head of my cock. I stumbled slightly, and nearly tripped over the pile of clothes at my feet, only Harry’s steadying hands stopping me from falling.

“Oh,” Harry said quietly, and swirled his tongue again.

I felt a gush of heat in my groin, and my cock twitched and throbbed. I looked down in time to see Harry lick a droplet of liquid away.

“Suck me off, _please_ ,” I begged.

Harry looked me in the eye as he slid his lips over my cock. And then he _sucked_. Firm and hot and _tight_. I was going to . . .

“More,” I pleaded. “Oh _please_ more. Fuck—”

His mouth moved up and down my cock. The pressure built. And built. The hot. Wet. Firm. So _close_. I needed . . . 

“Touch me. Behind,” I panted. “Oh god oh god oh god.”

Harry’s mouth slowed on my cock. I trembled with the effort not to fuck his mouth. He dropped his right hand to his side, then reached between my legs and behind me, his palm warm and firm against the top of my arse, his arm against my arse crack.

It was too fucking intimate. But – Merlin. He was still sucking on my dick, but so slowly I thought my brain might dribble out of my ears. I didn’t think it was possible to be this turned on and still be conscious.

And then he . . . moved his hand. He slid it down very slowly, parting my arse cheeks, one finger pressing against my skin. Slowly, oh so slowly, but he was eventually going to reach . . .

Oh fuck fuck fuck _fuck_ —

I clenched my muscles as his finger pressed gently against my arsehole. And relaxed. And clenched again. His mouth kept sucking. His finger stroking – now in firm, small circles. I relaxed . . . and tightened _around his finger_.

Harry had his _finger up my arse_. He crooked it, and—

—the coil of pressure in my groin tightened . . . and exploded. I came, shuddering, shouting, in helpless, unstoppable bursts. I couldn’t stop shaking, my body on fire. The fingers of Harry’s free hand dug in so tight to my hip and arse cheek it hurt. Somehow, that made me shudder even more helplessly into his mouth.

He withdrew his finger, but kept sucking, very softly, until tears sprang to my eyes. So sensitive. “S-s-stop,” I managed, through a haze of hormones and satisfaction. He led my cock slide out of his mouth and – my mouth went dry – swallowed.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then pressed a kiss to the tip of my cock. I was still half hard, and I couldn’t stop myself from gasping.

“And now?” he said, using me to lever himself up from the floor.

I suddenly felt very self-conscious. I was, after all, tied up and naked, while Harry was merely . . . dishevelled. He licked his lips idly and his eyes dropped to my mouth.

“Cleaning spell,” I said, trying to remain cool.

Harry flushed and muttered a spell that left my skin feeling tight, but also removed the smell of sex from the room. I tried not to react to his effortless control of wandless magic, but couldn’t suppress a shiver.

“Cold?” Harry said, misinterpreting. He took a step closer.

“No,” I said, my breath catching. Now I thought about it, I wasn’t – and I sensed the warm fizz of a heating spell in the room. Well, wasn’t Potter the considerate one.

His hands reached out to rest lightly on my sides, thumbs stroking circles against my skin.

I swallowed hard. “You didn’t kiss me,” I said accusingly, raising my chin a little.

Harry’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “You didn’t ask me to.”

“Do you really need to wait for an invitation?”

Harry mumbled something and – oh, bliss – the knot of fabric round my wrists loosened and unravelled, the tangle of tie and robe and ruined pyjama top slipping off. I found that rather than wanting to punch him for forcing such indignities on me, now that I could, the only thing I wanted to do was cup his face between my hands and pull him towards me.

“God, Draco,” Harry murmured. He sounded poleaxed, and he had a ridiculous, dazed expression on his face. “You’re so beautiful. I don’t know why I never—”

At this point I kissed him, mainly to shut him up. Well, maybe not mainly. A bit. Plus, with my hands free, now I could wrap my fingers in his stupid hair and tug, hard. The noises he made were encouraging. And – I sighed into his mouth – I could grind myself against him.

He moaned and kissed me sloppily, hungrily. It was not unpleasant. He pulled me so close I could hardly breathe; hands hard on my back, on my arse, his cock a hard lump against my stomach. He kissed me like he’d die without me.

I began to feel a little smug. I wouldn’t have thought I could feel smug whilst butt naked and in the company of a fully clothed Harry Potter, but there it was. I also began to feel more than a little turned on again. I was going to be sore.

I couldn’t bring myself to care.

I broke the kiss – Harry made a bereaved noise; his brow was slick with sweat – and I tugged one of Harry’s hand up to his mouth. “Spit,” I said.

He began to look a little wild-eyed. It matched his hair, at any rate. He spat.

I pushed his hand down between us, wrapped it around my dick. Helped him slick it up, get the right rhythm, then left him to it. I was too busy gasping against his mouth as his leg slid between mine, my balls a heavy weight against the thick fabric covering his thigh.

I felt raw, and vulnerable, and . . . and . . . and my throat hurt from gasping so hard, and Harry’s hand sped up, his strokes hard and fast, and _oh so tight_ and after a few minutes I came all over him in one – two – aching spurts.

His hand stilled, and my head fell against his. I could feel his heart beating _quick quick quick_ in his chest, even through his jumper. He kissed the side of my head, and an unaccustomed warm feeling flooded through my insides.

“Hmmm,” I said, my throat scratchy. I wondered if I’d been making a racket. “Not bad.”

Harry laughed, a little shakily. “Thanks.”

I pulled away and regarded the ruin of my clothing for a moment, before dressing as best I could. The robe was whole, at least, and that would get me back to my room if no one looked too closely. But first . . .

I straightened my shoulders and looked over at Harry. “Your turn.” I crossed my arms.

Harry’s brow wrinkled. “Ummmm . . .”

I rolled my eyes, grinning on the inside. Honestly; he was such an idiot. “I don’t have all day; get on with it.”

The Knut dropped. At least, in part. Harry’s cheeks went pink.

“Well, come on,” I said. “Be thankful I’m not asking the Weasel and Granger to look on.”

Harry’s colour rose even higher, but he grinned. “Cheers, Draco. You’re a real mate.”

I suppressed a smile. Instead, I tapped my foot and looked meaningfully at his crotch.

“Oh. Right.” Harry bit his lip, slid his hand under his pyjama bottoms, and started pumping. His lips parted. “So . . .” he said, then cleared his throat. He was trembling slightly now. “What . . .”

“You want to _chat_? Right now?” I said, unable to keep my eyes away from his hand, moving with purpose beneath the fabric.

“I . . .” Harry managed. “I like it when you . . . _uhhhh_ . . . actually talk to me.”

He – what? His eyes were certainly fixed on my lips, that was for sure. “Perhaps I could talk you through our latest potions homework,” I said. “Though knowing you, you’ve probably cribbed it from Granger. She really is the most annoying bookworm, Potter.”

There was a bead of sweat on Harry’s brow. “You’re just . . . jealous. Better than you,” he managed, seemingly not put off his stroke.

I evidently wasn’t achieving my aim here. I strode over and yanked Harry’s trousers down over his hips. His cock was thick and reddened in his fist, dripping from the tip. He faltered for a moment, but carried on manfully. I watched for a moment. His thighs were shaking, and his fist sped up.

“What would dearest Ron think to see you now?” I said airily. “Or Granger, for that matt—”

“Hnnnnnnnng,” Harry said eloquently and his cock squirted a copious amount of fluid all over his hand and, quite possibly, all over the room. I was irritated to have missed the face he pulled while he came; I’d been far too busy enjoying the show. Still, it pleased me that the next Gryffindor who came into the room would risk sitting in a small puddle of Harry’s spunk. I hoped it would be the Weasel.

“Goodnight, Harry,” I said. I pulled my wand from the pocket in my robe, quickly dismantled the wards, and went towards the round doorway that led to freedom.

Harry had tucked himself into his trousers by the time I looked back. I was a little annoyed that he’d managed to pull himself together for long enough to call me a git – charge accepted – but then he fell apart again into bumbling incoherency. “Um . . .” he said, meaningfully. “What are we . . .?” He ran his left hand through his hair, leaving it more dishevelled than when he started. “Um, you know . . .” He trailed off, a touch unhappily. He shot a glance towards the inner door, as if concerned a Weasel would burst through at any moment and spoil our sweet nothings.

I wasn’t sure what to make of the fact that Harry only became coherent while I was naked; this was going to make things challenging. It crossed my mind to wonder whether his umms and errrs indicated that he . . .

No. _No_. I did have a little sense of self-preservation left, despite all appearances to the contrary. I was wholly unconvinced that once Harry had stopped thinking with his cock, rather than the pitiful organ that was his brain, he would find me quite so entertaining.

I firmly pledged to myself that at our next encounter – if I felt up to the torture of arranging it – I would be firmly, entirely, in control of the situation – and entirely, completely free of Veritaserum.

Harry, on the other hand . . .

Hmmm. It was an idea worth considering. But I wasn’t sure I was quite brave enough to hear the answers to the questions that bobbed up insistently in my mind. Oh well.

“I am not _nearly_ so stupid as to give you the password to the Slytherin dungeons,” I said, straightening my robe. “Nor am I planning on taking you there right now. But,” I added, reaching the doorway and pushing the portrait aside, “if you were to make it to my room tomorrow night, I might just let you fuck me six ways to Sunday.”

I didn’t look back as I left, thinking it would spoil my dramatic exit, but I heard Harry mutter something appropriately frustrated before I slammed the portrait door shut behind me, to the irritation of the fat bitch within it.

I allowed myself to commit a childish act – I stuck my tongue out at her – and legged it, as fast as I could, to my room, clutching my robes around me as tight as possible. I was lucky – the hallways were completely deserted – and I shut and warded the door behind me with a sigh of complete relief. 

As I cast a cleaning spell over myself and changed into fresh pyjamas, I thought that if Harry couldn’t find his way here tomorrow night, well, he wasn’t the man I thought he was. But, really – after what he’d put me through this evening, I couldn’t find it in my black, evil heart to feel sorry for the trials he’d no doubt be put to . . . particularly if my Slytherin lovelies happened to get to him first. I almost wondered if it would be worth my while arranging.

After all, turnabout is fair play, don’t you agree?


End file.
